NINE

 

 

September 2, 1945

 

At the very center of Hanoi sat Bo Dinh Square – an open plaza surrounded by beautiful French buildings, including the palace of the French Governor-General of Indochina. Several hundred thousand Vietnamese, dressed in their best clothes, stood in the hot sun, waiting. They had seen flyers that Ho Chi Minh had promised to speak to all Vietnamese in the square that day. Many had made welcoming signs and banners that they held high.

 

Two black sedans drove into the square, flanked by a dozen Viet Minh soldiers on bicycles. Spitting Woman was the only female riding a bicycle. She had only learned how to ride the day before and was unsure of the two-wheeled contraption. After falling from it several times, she thought evil spirits haunted it. But Giap had ordered her to learn to ride the sinister machine, and she would do her duty.

After she had betrayed the American, Giap had grown to appreciate her loyalty. When they entered Hanoi and her services as a long-range scout were no longer needed, Giap decided to promote her to Ho’s personal bodyguard. She was known and respected by all the Viet Minh as an excellent fighter. The promotion was well-received by all, and Ho was pleased. Now, she would use her body as a shield to protect Ho if required. Ho and Giap had little doubt she would sacrifice her life if needed. As the president’s bodyguard, she was required to wear a new uniform and shoes. She didn’t like the shoes. They didn’t feel natural and gave her feet blisters. She was also given a Russian automatic pistol in place of her rifle. Firing and reloading the weapon efficiently took practice. Shells would often get stuck in the ejection port and keep the pistol from firing. The little gun pissed her off, and she threw it to the ground more than once. She missed her rifle, which she knew like the back of her hand and rarely jammed.

As the caravan slowly made its way to the wooden platform that had been constructed at the far end of the square, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. People wept. Inside one of those cars was their nation’s greatest hope. A man that was willing to sacrifice all for his people.

Nobody knew how the man that led the Viet Minh looked. He had changed his name, the way he dressed, and even the style of his hair dozens of times during his lifetime on the run from the French and the Japanese. He had traveled across the world to Russia, China, France, Great Britain, and the United States hiding, learning, living. He had become a communist and was a founder of the Indochinese Communist Party. But above all, he was a nationalist and longed to see freedom come to the Vietnamese people. He was sixty-five years old.

The two sedans rolled to a stop. The Viet Minh dismounted their bicycles and took up defensive positions, leading to the platform. The car doors were opened. Wearing freshly pressed suits, Ho and Giap stepped out along with Hoagland and Dewey, both wearing new khaki uniforms without insignia. Both Dewey and Hoagland were nervous about appearing in public after having served in a clandestine position for so long. But Ho had insisted they accompany him on the stand this historic day. Giap had personally guaranteed their safety. They had disagreements like any allies, but America was their friend, and they would do everything in their power to protect the warriors that had fought by their side.

They climbed the stairs and sat on the platform, shaded by an awning. It took almost ten minutes for the crowd to calm down to the point where an announcer could speak to them. A prominent Vietnamese civic leader introduced Ho. There was more applause when Ho stood and approached the microphone. A Vietnamese man held an umbrella above Ho to keep him cool from the heat of the day. Ho reached into his pocket and pulled out his speech, retyped to include Dewey’s suggestions.

Ho began his historic speech with the words of Thomas Jefferson, “All men are created equal. They are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights. Among them are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. This immortal statement was made in the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America in 1776. In a broader sense, this means: All the peoples on the earth are equal from birth, all the peoples have a right to live, to be happy and free. The Declaration of the French Revolution made in 1791 on the Rights of Man and the Citizen also states: All men are born free and with equal rights, and must always remain free and have equal rights. Those are undeniable truths.”

 

 

As Ho continued his speech, several miles away, the French soldiers pulled the convoy of trucks into a long alley and disembarked. They moved to the back door of an abandoned restaurant and formed a line to the first truck. Several men kicked in the back door and went inside the restaurant. Curious, Granier followed. There were two meat lockers in the kitchen. One had a lock on the door. A French soldier went to work picking the lock. Granier opened the second meat locker. The smell of rotten meat was overwhelming. Everyone complained until he shut the door. The French locksmith had tried several times, and other soldiers, impatient, were now giving him advice. Granier walked over to a butcher’s block and retrieved the butcher’s steel – a rod used to hone knife blades for carving. He walked over to the locksmith, slid the steel rod into the lock’s ring, and gave it a swift wrench against the door. The lock broke open. The French soldiers cheered.

They entered. Granier followed, curious. The box was empty and smelled of rotten produce and eggs. A commander walked to the back wall. There was a crack in the wall, which explained why it had not been in use when the restaurant was abandoned. He took a nail he had removed from one of the vegetable crates and slid it into the crack. He felt carefully until he found the spot he wanted, then lifted the nail. There was a thump, and the back of the wall seemed to move slightly. The commander pushed the wall, and it moved back into a hidden room.

Granier and the rest of the soldiers entered the dark room. Someone turned on a light overhead illuminating the interior. The room was filled with weapons and ammunition. In addition to hundreds of rifles and pistols, were nine Fusil-mitrailleur Modèle M29 machine guns, five British-made PIAT anti-tank weapons, three Brandt Mle 1935 60mm mortars, and an American-made M2 flame thrower. There were also six wooden crates filled with grenades, three satchel charges, and multiple stacks of wine bottles filled with gasoline – homemade Molotov cocktails. It was enough to equip a small army – a French army.

Granier moved up beside Laurent as if waiting for an explanation. Laurent gave him one, “When the Nazis surrendered, the provisional government run by French administrators in Vietnam saw the writing on the wall. They knew the Japanese could not let them remain in power now that Germany had fallen. Too much risk of them rejoining France and the Allies. We stored our best weapons in caches all over Hanoi. We knew we would need them again once the Japanese surrendered. It was just a matter of time.”

“You will fight the Viet Minh?” said Granier.

“And anyone that stands in our way. We will take back what is ours.”

The soldiers removed the weapons and ammunition. They passed them like a bucket brigade to the trucks. They would sort through them later.

Something caught Granier’s eye in the back of the room. A Fusil modèle FR-G2 sitting on a stand on a workbench as if someone had been adjusting it. The French-made FR-G2 was a highly modified MAS-36 rifle equipped with a match barrel with harmonic compensator and telescopic sight. Granier walked over and examined the weapon. It wasn’t an M1 Garand, but it would do in a pinch. He checked to make sure it was properly assembled and fully operational. It was. The action was smooth, like it had been well maintained. “Somebody loved you,” he said to the rifle.

There were fifty rounds in a box sitting on the bench next to the rifle. The shells had been tweaked, the burrs sanded off, just like he would have done. This was a sniper’s weapon. He almost hated to take it, wondering if the soldier who owned it might come back for it. He decided to borrow it until he found the owner or the owner found him.

With his new rifle in one hand and the box of shells in the other, Granier followed the last French soldier out of the hidden room and back to the trucks.

The back of the trucks was filled with weapons and ammunition. The men had to sit with their feet propped up. Granier climbed in and found a spot on a bench. He rested his rifle in his lap. He had no interest in letting it bang around with the other weapons. This gun was special. It was his.

 

 

Back in Bo Dinh Square, Ho’s entire speech lasted less than ten minutes, less than one thousand words. But words that would generate two wars cost millions of lives and change the course of modern history. People watched in amazement as Ho ended his speech by declaring Vietnam’s independence, “The whole Vietnamese people, animated by a common purpose, are determined to fight to the bitter end against any attempt by the French colonialists to reconquer their country. We are convinced that the Allied nations, which at Tehran and San Francisco have acknowledged the principles of self-determination and equality of nations, will not refuse to acknowledge the independence of Vietnam. A people who have courageously opposed French domination for more than eight years, a people who have fought side by side with the Allies against the Fascists during these last years, such a people must be free and independent. For these reasons, we, members of the Provisional Government of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, solemnly declare to the world that Vietnam has the right to be a free and independent country - and in fact, is so already. The entire Vietnamese people are determined to mobilize all their physical and mental strength, to sacrifice their lives and property in order to safeguard their independence and liberty.”

 

Concluding his remarks, Ho stood to receive the cheers and applause of the Vietnamese people. They chanted “Uncle” with a deafening roar. After several minutes, Ho was escorted back to the sedan that brought him. Giap was already inside, waiting. “This is a great day. A historic day; the birth of our nation,” said Ho as the sedan pulled away.

“Now we must hang on to it,” said Giap.

“You seem concerned, my friend.”

“We have news. Not good, I am afraid.”

“Will it get any better by not telling me?”

“No. The French prisoners that were supposed to be interned by the Chinese Governor-General never arrived at their holding facility. It seems they jumped their Japanese guards and requisitioned the truck transporting them.”

“Do we have any idea where they might be?”

“Someplace in Hanoi. We get reports, but by the time we check them out, they are gone.”

“I see. So this is where the final struggle will begin. The French will attempt to retake Hanoi. We will crush them.”

“Perhaps.”

“You doubt we have the will of the people?”

“No. There is little question the people are on our side and are willing to fight. We vastly outnumber the French. But we are limited to the number of trained troops. To hold Hanoi, we must defend all of the public utilities, government buildings, transportation hubs, and all communication facilities, including the radio stations. Our resources will be stretched thin. If they are patient, the French will be able to consolidate their forces. They can take one facility at a time. They will dig in.”

“And our people will still retake each facility they capture.”

“And they will make us pay dearly each time we do. The French do not need to wipe out our forces to win. They just need to demoralize our troops and the militia. I have little doubt that we can put a million civilians in the streets of Hanoi. But we still lack proper weapons even for our trained troops, let alone a militia. Many will be fighting the French with knives, hoes, and spades. How long will our will to fight last once we start taking heavy casualties?”

“I see your point. But we cannot let them have a foothold. It will encourage the French government to send them reinforcements.”

“I agree. But we need to be smart about deploying our best-trained troops.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We need to focus our best troops on the most valuable assets. The ones we know the French will want to take over first. My best guess is that they will try to secure the radio, phone, and telegraph facilities first. They will attempt to cut off our communications so we cannot call for reinforcements or even talk to our people inside Hanoi. They will attempt to divide us. Once they have control over communications, they will go after the transportation hubs – the airport and train station. They’ll put up roadblocks on the main streets and the highways. They will be careful not to stretch themselves too thin and only go after the main thoroughfares.”

“Then what?”

“The power station and waterworks. They will shut off the lights and water.”

“Why?”

“Our people have grown soft. They have become accustomed to the advantages of living in a city. Once the lights and power are cut, the city will become unsafe. The sewage system will not work, and disease will spread more easily. The street lamps will go out, and crime will rise. The people will begin to leave the city for the safety of the countryside. And that is exactly what the French want… to reduce our numbers.”

“Then, we must prevent them from accomplishing their purpose.”

“Of course. I have already begun deploying our forces. We will only use the militia as a support force and to patrol the streets so we can find the French. And when we do, our troops will do most of the fighting. We shall not use our people as cannon fodder.”

“While I appreciate your aspirations, we must do whatever is required to hold Hanoi, even if it means we must sacrifice some of our people to the French.”

“I understand. Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

 

 

The Viet Minh were accustomed to fighting in the forests and countryside. They had rarely fought in a city and lacked the skills of urban warfare. Giap knew that his army must master the strategies required to fight in the streets of a city. He turned to the Americans for advice.

 

At first, Dewey was reluctant to help because he knew that Giap would use the information to fight the French – one of America’s allies. But he quickly realized that there was no way not to take a stand in the upcoming conflict. His last instructions from OSS HQ in China were to train the Viet Minh to the best of his ability. Dewey decided that giving Giap information on urban warfare was within his current orders. He knew his decision would be frowned upon, especially since the war with the Japanese was over, but he felt confident that he could support his position. There was a good chance that America would need allies in Southeast Asia, and helping the Viet Minh would assure their support later when it was needed once again. He understood that both Ho and Giap were communists, but he found that they valued their relationship with the U.S. more than their relationship with the Russians and the Chinese. Dewey felt it was in America’s best interest to keep the relationship with the Vietnamese strong.

Dewey did his best to explain how to properly defend key positions within a city and the importance of not getting trapped by failing to defend or patrol properly. He instructed Giap on various strategies that the enemy might use to assault fixed defensive positions. He drew layouts that described the correct placement of troops and weapons. He even showed him the proper way to fill and stack sandbags so they could withstand an explosion.

 

On receiving Dewey’s instruction, Giap realized that his forces were far more lacking in training and experience than he had originally thought. Most of the fighting they had done in the cities were simple terrorist attacks on unsuspecting Frenchmen. But Giap knew there was a big difference between tossing a grenade into a crowded bar filled with French soldiers and holding a defensive position within a city against veteran fighters. In addition to many things, he needed more snipers on rooftops. He temporarily reassigned Spitting Woman back to her old unit as a sniper.

 

Like the other Viet Minh soldiers, Spitting Woman was not comfortable fighting in the city. It was all strange to her, and she didn’t understand the simplest things, such as opening a window or climbing up a fire escape stairway on the outside of a building. She was often forced to work outside her comfort zone and constantly felt ill-at-ease. But she always obeyed and worked hard to master the new challenges.

 

 

It was almost noon when the French finished their reconnaissance of Hanoi’s main radio station. From a rooftop overlooking the facility, two French scouts observed a company of Viet Minh troops taking up temporary firing positions in the station’s doorways and windows as 300 militiamen and women filled sandbags and stacked them around the station in a defensive perimeter. “We should attack now before they complete their defenses,” said one of the scouts.

“You keep watching. I’ll go tell the commander,” said a second scout.

 

Giap advised the Viet Minh commander defending the radio station that he should prepare to counter-attack the French once they started their assault. This would throw them off balance and reduce their troops’ effectiveness. They would not expect a counter-attack from a band of guerillas. The commander was low on Viet Minh troops but had an overabundance of militia. He ordered that groups of one hundred militia station themselves inside the buildings surrounding the radio station where they would stay hidden until ordered to attack the French.

 

More French scouts were sent to explore the surrounding buildings. They discovered the Vietnamese militia troops in several of the buildings with iron bars on the bottom floor windows. If the French attacked, the Vietnamese were well-positioned to fire down on the French troops from the windows on the higher floors while others could exit the ground floor and assault the French troops in the square. The scouts left quietly, unseen by the Vietnamese, and reported back to the French commander.

 

Inside a nearby warehouse, Laurent and the other French soldiers listened to the final assault instructions given by the French commander. Granier stood apart from the group and listened. His sniper rifle cradled in his lap. He was pondering what to do. As far as he knew, the Americans and Viet Minh were still allies. But he questioned giving his loyalty to his own country that so easily abandoned him to the Japanese. As for the Viet Minh, they had betrayed him and were now his enemy.

As the planning meeting broke up, Laurent walked over to Granier and said, “So, are you with us?”

“You will be killing the Viet Minh?”

“As many as we can find.”

“Then, I am with you… for now.”

“Alright,” said Laurent, then pointed to the sniper rifle. “I assume you know how to use that thing?”

“I do.”

“Then you will join me on the roof overlooking the radio facility. We will provide fire support once the assault begins.”

“I didn’t peg you as a sniper.”

“Good. My disguise is working. I suggest you bring all the ammunition you have. It’s going to be a bloody battle.”

“I’m ready.”

 

Hoagland and Dewey watched as more and more Vietnamese joined the militia and took up arms. Their numbers were growing rapidly by the hour. “They’re going to get slaughtered, you know that?” said Hoagland.

“I don’t know that, and neither do you. Giap believes their vast numbers will give them the edge they need to beat the French,” said Dewey. “And frankly, I tend to agree with him. Eventually, the French will run out of bullets, and when they do, the tables could very well be turned in the Viet Minh’s favor. But in any case… it won’t be pretty.”

“Pretty? This isn’t some game, commander. The men we trained and fought beside are going to be killed.”

“Don’t be overly dramatic, Hoagland. It’s war. Men will die on both sides.”

“And we’re just going to sit back and watch it happen?”

“Our instructions preclude us from being directly involved in combat with anyone but the Japanese. We can advise, but beyond that, we have to sit this one out.”

“Look, the French must know they will eventually lose Indochina.”

“I’m not so sure they do realize that. They’ve held on to it for almost two hundred years. It’s never been easy, and this is not the first uprising they’ve had to deal with.”

“Why are they here? What do they want?”

“Money, of course. A return on their investment. Especially now that they need to rebuild their homeland. France is broke. Indochina is their cash cow. They’ll drain it for everything that it’s worth.”

“But surely, a war will be more costly?”

“I have little doubt, especially if the French lose. But the politicians won’t say that. For many, war is a profitable business.”

“So, why don’t we offer a compromise? Let the French keep their plantations and factories, but give the Vietnamese their freedom. The new Vietnamese government could guarantee French property rights.”

“Communists guaranteeing property rights? I don’t think the French are that stupid.”

“Alright. So, maybe not forever, but just until France is rebuilt. Say… ten years.”

“If the French are allowed to stay for another ten years, they’ll never give up Indochina. Both Ho Chi Minh and Giap are smart enough to see that. Your ideas are just delaying a war that will happen anyway. Face it, Hoagland, we’re warriors. Not diplomats.”

“But we should at least try. America is the only honest broker. We have no dog in the fight. We could save tens of thousands of lives if we can avert war.”

“Giap is not going to listen. He sees war as the only way to settle this argument.”

“But Ho might listen. He’s a reasonable man. He can be convinced if he believes it will benefit his people.”

“Perhaps. I suppose I could try.”

“With all due respect, Commander. I think Ho would respond better if I were the messenger. He listens to me.”

“You did save his life,” said Dewey, taking a long moment to consider. “Alright. You can try to broker a ceasefire with peace talks to follow. But be careful, Hoagland. Do not promise what you are not sure you can deliver.”

“Of course.”

 

The Viet Minh headquarters were located in an office building in downtown Hanoi. It was buzzing with activity as messengers came in and out with reports. The Viet Minh did not have enough radios to stay in contact with all their unit commanders, so messengers on bicycles were used. Although slower than the radio, it was a surprisingly reliable method of communicating.

As sporadic fighting broke out, civilians cleared the streets. The French were indiscriminate in distinguishing between combatants and civilians. Everyone was a target. A hundred messengers became a second set of scouts traveling through the city that could report on enemy troop movements and skirmishes.

Hoagland approached the command headquarters. He was well known by the Viet Minh but less so by the militiamen that were now being used to support the Viet Minh. He was stopped at gunpoint by the guards in front of the building. One of the Viet Minh officers saw the American and scolded the two militia guards. It was difficult for most Vietnamese to tell the difference between a Frenchman and an American, especially if they were not familiar with the languages. The Viet Minh officer escorted Hoagland inside.

Hoagland was taken to Ho, talking with community leaders in a conference room. Ho stopped the meeting and asked for a few minutes alone with the American. The leaders left. “You and your men are safe, Good Doctor?” said Ho.

“Yes. Thank you,” said Hoagland. “The guards you sent are doing an excellent job of protecting us.”

“Good. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you. I’ve come to talk with you about the French. This conflict you are starting is unnecessary and counter-productive.”

“We are not starting the conflict. We are merely protecting ourselves. It is the French that are attacking my people, not the other way around.”

“I understand that, but only you can defuse the situation.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“To save lives.”

“Why is Commander Dewey not here?”

“He… We both thought it would be better if you and I spoke first.”

“Ah… politics then. So, where does America stand? Will they support us?”

“We have not been given orders one way or the other. For now, we are neutral.”

“That is unfortunate. If there were ever a country that should understand our plight, it would be America.”

“And I agree with you. But some things take time. Right now, our leaders are focused on the peace negotiations.”

“You mean the Allied leaders are busy dividing up the world, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a diplomat.”

“And yet here you are proposing diplomatic solutions.”

“The thought of good men dying… I had to do something.”

“Of course. I would expect nothing less of you.”

“What if we were able to get the French to call a ceasefire and negotiate?”

“I doubt the French would agree. They are determined to gain control of Hanoi. We cannot let that happen. We have them outnumbered one hundred to one. We will fight.”

“And you may lose. You have no idea what a well-trained western army can do.”

“I have some idea. After all, you Americans trained us.”

“The training we gave you was to fight an enemy in the countryside, not a city. The French have been fighting in cities for centuries. They know the advantages of the territory far better than you do. They will use it against you to great effect.”

“We will adapt as we always do. Westerners continue to underestimate our people and their determination. You have little faith in us. We defeated the Japanese; now, we will defeat the French.”

“Perhaps, but at what cost?” said Hoagland. “Thousands will die on both sides.”

“A small price to pay for freedom, don’t you think?”

“Not if you could avoid it.”

“Doctor, this battle is a long time coming. We knew it would happen. The French knew it would happen. It is inevitable.”

“Are you saying that compromise is not possible?”

“Compromise is always possible if both sides are reasonable. But that is not the current mindset of either side. We must settle our differences. I am afraid things are going to get much worse before they can get better.”

“Would you allow me to at least try and find a path for peace?” said Hoagland.

Ho considered for a long moment. “If you can get the French to agree to a ceasefire, we will agree to negotiate in good faith. But I fear you are wasting your time.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” said Hoagland showing his respect.

“Of course, Good Doctor,” said Ho. “I shall provide an escort.”

“No, thank you. I believe I would have better luck with the French if I appear not to take sides.”

“That could be very dangerous,” said Ho. “The city is in chaos.”

“I realize that, but it is our best chance at peace. I believe it is worth the risk.”

“Then let me at least write a letter giving you and the other team members safe passage through the city.”

“Thank you. That would be appreciated.”

Ho got out a piece of paper and wrote in Vietnamese. He signed his name as Ho Chi Minh and handed it to Hoagland. Hoagland folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket. “Good luck, my friend,” said Ho offering his hand.

“And to you, my friend,” said Hoagland, shaking hands before leaving.

 

 

Hoagland returned to report to Dewey. Dewey was on the rooftop of the building, watching and listening to distant explosions and gunfire in the city. “I’ve got news, Commander. Ho has agreed to a ceasefire with the French if it can be arranged.” Hoagland removed the letter from his pocket. “He gave us a signed letter that should help protect us as we move through the city to find the French commander.”

“Well done, Hoagland. But I’m afraid it’s too little too late,” said Dewey, downtrodden, examining the letter from Ho, placing it in his shirt pocket.

“What do you mean?”

“Commander Patti radioed while you were gone. We’ve been given our marching orders.”

“What?! Why?”

“He wants us out of the way when the shit hits the fan.”

“We can’t do that. We’re on the verge of a breakthrough that could save lives, thousands of lives.”

“It’s done. A transport plane will pick us up first thing tomorrow morning.”

“We’re gonna just leave? Without saying anything?”

“What are we gonna say, Hoagland? Sorry, your country is on the wrong side of the world, and nobody gives a damn? That the French are more strategically important to America than the Vietnamese?”

“If we leave like this… If we just abandoned them, they’ll never forgive us.”

“Probably not, but we’re soldiers. We did our duty and accomplished our mission. The rest is left to diplomats and historians. Pack your gear. We leave at first light.”

Hoagland left, crestfallen.

 

 

Granier and Laurent pried open the back door to a tall apartment building. Each carried a rifle and backpack with ammunition. They entered cautiously and climbed the stairs leapfrogging – one providing cover while the other advanced up the stairs, then vice versa. After six flights of stairs, they came to the rooftop access door. It was locked. Laurent kicked it open and exited the stairwell. Granier followed.

There was a clothesline filled with well-worn underwear, white bedsheets, and a blanket drying in the sun. Granier pulled down the blanket, folded it, and rolled it up.

Careful not to give away their position, Granier and Laurent duck-walked, then crawled to the edge of the roof and looked over.

The apartment building on which they were located was not directly in front of the radio station. Instead, it was located a block away. It had a very good view of the front entrance and one of the sides of the radio station. More importantly, it was several stories higher, overlooking the rooftop of the radio station and all of the firing positions now being built around it. It was far enough away that they didn’t need to worry too much about return fire from the Viet Minh troops below them. Laurent had done his homework in picking out the superior location, and Granier was impressed. He liked working with experienced professionals.

Laurent smiled, pleased with himself. He knew a fellow sniper would appreciate how clever he had been in selecting this particular building.

Granier set the rolled-up blanket on the edge of the rooftop. When the time came, he would rest his rifle’s stock on it, giving him a stable shooting platform. It wasn’t fancy, but it would give him an extra fifty yards of accuracy. Granier wanted to survey the battlefield, but he didn’t want to reveal his rifle. He removed the rifle’s telescope and peered through it at the radio station.

Many of the Viet Minh defending the station were men he knew. He had fought with them side by side. He had defended them, and they had defended him, right up until they betrayed him. He wondered how they could turn on him. They had been his pack. He thought about the times they had eaten together and when they had played pranks on him. Now, they were just traitors… the enemy. It made him melancholy.

He thought about just getting up and walking away. Nothing was stopping him. He knew Laurent wouldn’t do anything. But deep down, he felt the need for justice. He couldn’t just let it go. The scales had to be balanced.

He picked out and prioritized his targets – the key firing positions. It didn’t matter who occupied them. They were dead men in his mind. It was just a matter of timing – one moment alive, the next dead. The more he thought about it, the calmer he became, like being prepared for a test in school. It was simple. He liked simple.

As Granier finished his shooting plan, Laurent watched the station and said, “Looks like we have company. Rooftop.”

Granier shifted his telescope to the rooftop. He watched as three Viet Minh snipers exited the access doorway to the station’s rooftop. He knew all three. He had picked them out and trained them personally. He fought his emotions, burying them deep. They were like all the others. They had taken the side against him when he was betrayed. They deserved no mercy. His justice would be even and swift. They each took up a firing position on the corners of the rooftop. They were in good positions to pick off any French soldiers assaulting the station from below. He would see that they never got the chance. They would be his first targets. He was resolved. The doubt gone, until…

The access door opened again, and another sniper stepped out on to the rooftop. Granier’s heart sank on seeing Spitting Woman. She had a rolled-up blanket tucked under her arm. In the other arm, she carried her rifle. She walked to the back of the building, set her blanket on the edge, and laid down. An air vent obscured her legs, but her torso and head were in clear view. She was in range and uncovered. It would be an easy shot. “You gonna need some help?” said Laurent.

“No. I got ’em,” said Granier.

“Good. I’ll focus on the front and the left side. You do the rooftop and the right side. Deal?”

“Yeah. That’s good.”

Granier’s mind was racing as he attempted to deal with his emotions. The assault would start at any moment. He had to be clear about what he was doing. Indecision would cost French lives. He owed them more than that. They were his new pack. He tried to calm himself. He thought about his list of priorities. Spitting Woman was at the back of the building. She would be fourth. Fourth, he thought. That’s all she is. A number on a list. She had made her decision, and now he would make his. Fourth. A squeeze of the trigger, and she would be gone forever.

Their relationship flashed through his mind like a film projector of captured moments – the first time he saw her running across the field and killed the Japanese soldier that was going to kill him, the first time she spat on him, the time she saved him from a boobytrap, when he carried her on his back, then in his arms, as she laid in bed in the Chinese hospital begging him not to leave her, her smile when they jumped together from the plane and parachuted down into the forest, the first time they kissed and made love. Fourth. She was to be the fourth.

 

 

In the square in front of the radio station, a Vietnamese milkman rolled a cart full of fifty-liter metal milk jugs. Seeing hundreds of Vietnamese militia and Viet Minh troops pointing their weapons at him, he abandoned his milk jugs and ran away, leaving the cart in the square.

The Viet Minh commander studied the cart. He didn’t like it. He picked up a rifle, aimed, and fired a round into one of the metal cans. A stream of milk flowed from the bullet hole. The Viet Minh and militia laughed.

A French fighter, shouldering a PIAT anti-tank launcher, rose from his hiding place in the center of the milk jugs, aimed and fired. The rocket shot across the square and crashed into a Viet Minh machine gun position. The explosion blew open the sandbags protecting it and killed the entire gun crew. The French gunner ducked back down before the surprised Vietnamese could return fire. The metal jugs protected him from small arms fire like a homemade tank. He reloaded and prepared to fire again.

 

Nearby, a French man carrying a wooden mallet and two wedges trotted up to the front door of the building in which the Vietnamese militia was hiding. He placed a wedge at the bottom of each of the front doors and gave them a whack with his mallet. His mission accomplished, he ran for cover down an alley.

Inside the building, the Vietnamese heard the two loud whacks at the front door. A militiaman tried to open the doors. They were stuck shut fast. There was a knock at the back door of the building. Two militiamen went to investigate with their rifles at the ready. One opened the back door and was gunned down by a spray of machine gun fire. The other militiaman returned fire out the open doorway, firing frantically at nothing. After a moment, a satchel charge with its fuse already lit flew through the doorway and skidded across the tile floor. The back door slammed shut. There was another whack from a wedge. The militiaman ran to the back door and tried to open it. It, too, was wedged shut. A militiaman in the center of the room yelled for his comrades to open the window shutters. He picked up the satchel charge and flung it toward the open window. The iron bars on the outside of the window blocked the satchel charges path, and it bounced back inside the room. The explosion killed everyone on the first floor and took out the supporting columns. The building collapsed in a heap of brick and wood, crushing those to death on the upper floors.

Two more satchel charge explosions collapsed two more buildings nearby. In a matter of less than a minute, the French had killed one-third of the Vietnamese protecting the radio station. They knew urban warfare well.

 

The French soldier on the cart surrounded by milk jugs popped up again and fired another PIAT taking out another Viet Minh machine gun position. A Viet Minh sniper on the radio station rooftop shot him in the head. He fell against the milk jugs and toppled them into the square with a loud clatter. He was dead.

 

The French kicked open the back doors and charged into the remaining buildings surrounding the square. They took up firing positions at all the available windows on every floor and occupied the rooftops. They were now fighting the Viet Minh and militia on an equal footing, both firing from covered positions. The French set up their light machine guns on the higher floors and opened fire.

 

French mortar teams fired shells over buildings from alleys and back streets. Mortar shells rained down on the Vietnamese positions and the radio station rooftop. The explosions shattered the Vietnamese troops’ morale. There was no safe place to hide anywhere. Just mayhem. They felt trapped in the city and longed for the forest where they knew how to fight and could easily retreat, if necessary.

 

A boat floated down the river next to the radio station. A French soldier with high-pressure tanks on his back rose up and unleashed a stream of fire from the nozzle of his flamethrower. The side of the radio station caught fire, and the blazing liquid rained down on the Viet Minh positions beside the building. Soldiers caught fire and ran for the river only to be met with more inferno from the flame thrower.

Spitting Woman shot the French soldier with the flamethrower. The tanks on his back ignited and exploded in a ball of flame, engulfing him. He tried to make it over the side of the boat but couldn’t see where he was going. He fell into the bottom of the boat and died. The burning boat continued down the river.

 

The explosions below in the square brought Granier out of his thoughts. The assault was beginning. Laurent opened fire on the Viet Minh positions at street level, killing several soldiers.

Granier chambered a round and aimed at his first target. The moment when he first met the young Viet Minh soldier flashed into his mind. He drove the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. The soldier was opening fire at the French. Granier placed his crosshairs on the man’s head and slowly squeezed. The rifle fired with a jerk. Granier realigned the telescope just in time to watch the soldier slump over his rifle, dead. He repeated the procedure on the second target, killing him. Then the third, dead.

He moved his sight to the fourth target. Spitting Woman had not noticed that her three comrades were dead. She was focused on her targets in the street below behind the station. She fired again and again, her empty cartridges flipping into the air. Granier knew that at that range, her aim would be deadly, and every second he waited was costing French lives. His pack was dying. He chambered another round in his rifle. He placed the crosshairs in the telescope’s reticle over her head. He slowly squeezed the trigger, then… stopped.

The thought of her beautiful head exploding bothered him. She had children. He didn’t want them to see that when her body was returned home. He moved the crosshairs to the left side of her back above her heart. The results would be the same. She would be dead. That’s what he wanted. Justice. He again squeezed the trigger. And again, he stopped. “Don’t be such a pussy,” he said to himself. “She’s just a target.”

But he knew that was a lie. She was far more than that. He released the pressure on the trigger. He didn’t know what to do. He thought about firing next to her to get her attention, but that might cause her to fire back, and he would have no choice but to kill her. That… or sacrifice his own life for hers. The idea was not abhorrent. His anguish would cease, and she would live.

Laurent looked over and saw that Granier was not firing. “Why the hell aren’t you firing?” said Laurent, angry. “Our men are dying.”

Granier didn’t respond. Laurent looked at the rooftop and saw the woman shooting. “She has a rifle, and she is using it. Kill her and move on,” said Laurent.

Still, Granier did nothing. Laurent aimed with his rifle. It was a bad angle, and his rifle lacked a telescope. With his hard sight, it was a long shot. He fired anyway. Granier heard the crack of his rifle and watched through his scope. Oh, god, no, he thought. The bullet bounced off the low wall on the edge of the roof. Spitting Woman immediately knew she was being targeted. The angle of the bullet meant that somebody was shooting from a nearby rooftop. She looked around.

Granier looked over as Laurent chambered another round and took aim. Granier swung his rifle around and hit Laurent in the head with the butt of his rifle at the same moment he fired. Laurent fell unconscious. Granier looked through his telescope at the station rooftop.

He found Spitting Woman. She had seen the flash of the second shot. It had missed her. Her rifle was pointed straight at him. He smiled. She was alive. She fired. The bullet ricocheted on the edge of the rooftop in front of where Granier was lying. He wondered if she had missed on purpose, then realized she had no way of knowing that it was him. It was too far to see his face. Like Laurent’s, her rifle didn’t have a telescope either. In a firefight between snipers, she was like a sitting duck. She was in his crosshairs. He could easily kill her before her next shot.

Instead, he stood up, leaving his rifle on the ground. His entire body was exposed. It would be an easy shot for her. He closed his eyes and thought of her as he did before. Her eyes. Her skin. Her smile. A long moment passed… and nothing happened. He opened his eyes and looked across the distance at her. There was no way she could see my face, he thought. Why don’t you shoot? I’m the enemy.

 

But she didn’t. Instead, she lowered her rifle.

 

He couldn’t see her face, and he didn’t want to scare her by looking through his telescope. He imagined that she knew it was him. That he was with the French. That he had betrayed her and the Viet Minh just like he had been accused. He was the enemy. And yet… she couldn’t bring herself to kill him. He wondered what that meant. Did she still love him? Was that even possible after everything that had happened? Could it all just be forgiven and they could go back to the way it was before?

 

The French pressed their assault. Soldiers advanced in a staggered line, firing their weapons, keeping up a constant barrage, hammering the enemy.

 

Thirty Vietnamese militiamen and woman charged the advancing French line. They were armed with hoes and knives. Two Frenchmen using their light machine guns mowed them down before they could reach them.

 

When the French troops had closed enough distance, they threw dozens of grenades into the Viet Minh and militia positions around the radio station.

 

The stacks of sandbags became a deathtrap preventing the Vietnamese soldiers from fleeing when a grenade landed nearby. The grenade explosions torn into the soldiers, killing a dozen more. The Viet Minh and the militia had taken heavy losses and were pulling back, abandoning the radio station. There wasn’t much time until the facility was overrun.

 

Granier could see that if Spitting Woman was to escape, she had to go now. But she wasn’t moving. Her eyes were fixed on him. He didn’t want her to die. He wondered if she even realized the danger she was in. He thought she might not leave while she could still see him. He sighed, picked up his rifle and pack. He took one last look at her and turned away. He walked to the access doorway, opened the door, then… disappeared from the rooftop.

 

On the opposite rooftop, Spitting Woman stood, tears running down her cheeks. She picked up her pack and rifle. She took one final look at the opposite rooftop and left the radio station through the rooftop doorway just as the American had done.

She arrived at the bottom of the stairwell as the last of the Viet Minh pulled back from their firing positions. She followed them down a street and disappeared into the city. The Viet Minh had just lost their first battle with the French.

 

Within just a few days of World War Two ending, the First Indochina War had started.

 

 

Granier kept out of sight as best he could as he traveled through Hanoi. Technically, the Americans were not at war with either the Vietnamese or the French. But he knew the Vietnamese would only see the color of his skin and assume he was French, especially since he was armed.

He didn’t have a plan. Things had just unfolded. He was alone without a pack. He wasn’t frightened. He could defend himself if it came to it. But he lacked purpose, and it gave him an empty feeling.

He wondered if Laurent was okay. He had hated to hit him, but he didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t go back to the French, and he didn’t want to anyway. To them, he had been just another rifle and was now a traitor.

The Viet Minh were still his enemies and would hunt him if they learned of his whereabouts. Things had changed so fast. His options had narrowed. He knew he had to get out of the country. There were no trains and only a few roads to Laos or Cambodia. Both the French and the Viet Minh would be watching them for possible incursions. The Chinese were to the north. They were Allies with America and would probably welcome him. He thought about sneaking aboard a cargo ship. Hai Phong Harbor was a good distance from the city, and he would need to cross a lot of open land to get there. Not a good idea. He thought he might be able to bribe a taxi driver, but he would still need to contend with any roadblocks. He realized the odds of escaping by ship were slim. He considered finding a supply truck convoy heading north but then realized that with the war with the Japanese over, it was unlikely the Vietnamese would be shipping any supplies to the Chinese. It was more likely the Chinese would send supplies to the Vietnamese, who were starving.

He decided that Hanoi airport was his best chance at escape. He couldn’t just steal a plane. He didn’t know how to fly one. He would need a pilot. Feasibly a cargo plane heading north or maybe a smaller plane. He didn’t care where the plane was going as long as it was leaving Indochina.

Gia Lam Airport was east of the Red River, and he was still on the west side. He would need to cross Paul-Doumer Bridge, which almost assuredly would have checkpoints by either the French or the Viet Minh, depending on who controlled the structure at the time he wanted to cross. He could swim across, but the river was wide and the current strong. It would be risky. Bribing a boat pilot would not be too difficult, but he had no money. He might be able to trade if he could find something valuable. He would need to travel at night and stick to the shadows when possible so as not to be recognized as a foreigner.

 

Granier hid in an alley behind a laundry and watched. He waited until the owner was finished hanging out customers’ clothes to dry on several clotheslines. When the owner of the laundry disappeared back inside, Granier went shopping. He snagged the largest set of dark pajamas he could find. They were still several sizes too small and barely made it over his well-developed muscles. They were a bad fit but would serve their purpose.

 

A street vendor rode by on a bicycle with two baskets filled with brooms on the back. Granier watched from an alley as the bicycle approached. He knew it was unlikely that the vendor would ever leave his bicycle unattended. He also knew that stealing that bike might mean the vendor and his family would lose their main means of financial support. It couldn’t be helped. Traveling through Hanoi with a sniper rifle on his back was a sure way of being caught or killed. The brooms would hide his rifle. He needed that bicycle. He reached into his pocket and took out his grandfather’s gold coin. He looked down at it. I’ve shed blood for that coin, he thought. Screw it. He put the coin back in his pocket, unslung his rifle, and chambered a round.

As the street vendor pedaled closer, Granier stepped out and leveled his rifle straight at the man. The man stopped. Granier motioned with his head that the man should leave. The man tried to turn his bike around. Granier reached out and grabbed the handlebars preventing him from riding off with the bike. The man’s expression showed that he understood he was being robbed. He shouted at the foreigner, cursing him, drawing attention from others on the street. Granier stood his ground and motioned once again that the man should leave. The man wouldn’t abandon his livelihood.

Granier thought about shooting him but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He liked that the man was putting up a fight. He had moxie. Granier pressed the barrel of the rifle against the man’s chest right where his heart would be. Still, the man wouldn’t give up the bike. People started to gather at a distance, watching, some shouting from across the street. Granier wasn’t worried about the angry civilians. One or two bullets fired in the air would scare them off. But he was concerned that they might attract any Viet Minh or French troops that might be nearby. He had had enough of the argument. He reslung his rifle. The vendor’s expression brightened, believing that the thief was giving up. He wasn’t. Granier grabbed the man by his shirt, lifted him off the bike, and threw him to the ground. He mounted the bike. The man scrambled to his feet and grabbed the foreigner stealing his bike. Granier punched him in the nose, and he fell back to the ground. A bloody nose is better than a bullet, thought Granier, pedaling off down the street, people shouting at him as he rode past.

 

Once clear of the rabble, Granier pulled into an alley and stowed his rifle in the basket. He arranged the brooms to hide it. The brooms would serve a dual purpose, both hiding his gun and hiding him from anybody watching him from behind. His face was his biggest problem. He looked nothing like the Vietnamese. Passing a woman with a conical straw hat, he reached out and grabbed it off her head. She cursed him as he placed the hat on his head and rode off.

 

As the sun set on the horizon, he pedaled through Hanoi toward the Red River. His new disguise worked well. He was still bigger than most Vietnamese, but with his face hidden by the shadows of the hat, people didn’t give the overly tall broom vendor too much thought.

 

It took Granier two hours to make it to the Paul-Doumer Bridge stretching over the Red River. As he suspected, there was a three-man Viet Minh checkpoint at the mouth of the bridge. He imagined there would be another checkpoint on the opposite bank. Even if he killed the Viet Minh on this end, he would surely face the Viet Minh stationed on the other end of the bridge when they heard the shots. Crossing the river by the bridge was very risky. On the bridge, places to hide or retreat would be greatly limited.

He decided to explore other options. He pedaled the bike upriver along the bank. There were plenty of boats tied up along the shore, but most were filled with families cooking their evening meal. Generations of Vietnamese fishermen and their families lived on their boats. It was cheaper than paying rent, especially in a big city like Hanoi, where the rents were beyond the means of most families.

He found a round basket boat flipped upside down on the shore, hidden in some tall reeds. He lifted it and found a paddle underneath. The one-man boat was made out of bamboo, and he wondered if he could fit the bicycle with the broom baskets. He flipped it over and decided that he and the bike would probably be too much weight for such a small boat. Its spherical structure made it less stable than flat bottom boats. He didn’t like the idea of capsizing in the middle of the river. He could lose his rifle, which was far more important than the bike. He left the bike, slung his rifle on his back, and dragged the boat to the river’s edge. He stepped inside the boat and almost flipped it before sitting in the center, which seemed to stabilize it.

He paddled out into the river's surprisingly strong current. The little boat moved quickly. He realized he had made a mistake cycling upriver. The bridge with its heavy pylons was quickly approaching. He maneuvered the boat to pass between two of the support pylons. There was a guard in the middle of the bridge, smoking a cigarette and watching the boat traffic around the bridge. Granier knew that his paddling skills would not pass muster with the guard or anybody else that knew anything about boats. He had no choice but to hope for the best. Granier kept his head down and tried not to look too obvious. He let the current do the work and tried to steer the boat rather than propel it. It worked. The guard was more interested in his cigarette than the little round boat passing directly beneath him.

Once past the bridge and out of sight of the Viet Minh guard, Granier paddled the boat to the far shore. Climbing out was just as tricky as climbing in. He stepped out on what he thought was the shore and sank deep in the mud. He almost fell into the water, which would have meant his rifle would have gotten wet, but he was able to keep his balance. When he pulled his foot out of the mud hole he had created, he was missing his sandal. He was still several miles from the airfield and wasn’t sure if he could make it barefoot. The Vietnamese had a bad habit of discarding broken bottles and open cans with sharp edges. It was dark, and he wouldn’t be able to see the ground well. He longed for the forest where his biggest concern was a tripwire or a punji stick, things he knew to search for. He reached down into the water where he thought he had stepped. He found the hole in the mud, but it still took him several minutes to retrieve the sandal.

He pulled the boat to shore and flipped it over. Hopefully, in the morning, the owner would see it from the opposite bank and retrieve it. He climbed up the embankment and looked around to catch his bearings. The east side of the river was much darker and less populated than the west side. He could see the floodlights of what he thought was the airfield in the distance. He imagined the Vietnamese would keep the airfield well-lit at night to deter saboteurs. Since he no longer had the bicycle, he decided to head cross-country and aim straight for the bright lights. He would need to be careful of barbed wire fences, but he figured that would be safer than running into a French or Viet Minh patrol on the road.

As he walked through the darkness, he could hear gunfire and an occasional explosion from the city behind him. The Viet Minh and French were still going at it. Hanoi was burning.

He wondered if Spitting Woman was okay. Knowing her, he was sure she would be part of the fighting. She was a furious warrior. He doubted he would ever find a woman like her again. He determined not to try. He was done with women or at least relationships with women. He would seek comfort when needed but never allow his emotions to get involved. It would be easy. He just wouldn’t lie and would never commit beyond the moment. Any woman that chose to spend time with him would quickly realize that he had no interest in her beyond sex. She would lose hope and discard him. That’s what he wanted — no more attachments.

 

It took Granier most of the night to reach the airfield. When he arrived near the main gate, he saw two Viet Minh guards both armed with rifles. He unslung his sniper rifle and crawled onto a berm. He was well-hidden by the surrounding vegetation and mostly out of the glow from the airfield’s floodlights. Taking them out wouldn’t be a problem. His telescope made the job more difficult because they were so close. He considered removing it but decided against it since he did not know what he would encounter once he entered the airfield. He would kill both the soldiers within two seconds. He would sprint through the main gate and find cover near the edge of the airfield before anyone came to investigate the shots. Then it was just a matter of finding a plane that could carry him out of the country.

He considered waiting until dawn. The flash from his rifle’s muzzle would be more difficult to see in the daylight. Besides, he was tired from traveling all night and thought he might be able to get a few minutes shuteye before what promised to be a long flight, which might require him to stay awake, depending on the situation. He closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep.

 

 

Granier woke to the sound of a jeep engine. The sun was already up and in his eyes when he looked down the road. A jeep with five men wearing khaki was approaching the airfield. As the jeep passed, Granier couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the Deer Team.

Santana was driving. Dewey sat in the passenger seat. Holding their weapons, Hoagland, Green, and Davis rode in the back.

The two guards shouted something in Vietnamese and raised their rifles.

Santana braked the jeep to a stop in front of the gate.

Granier used his telescope to see what was going on. He had mixed feelings about seeing his comrades. Part of him was angry that they had so easily abandoned him. Another part was glad to see so many familiar faces. He wanted to be part of the team again. The team protected him and gave him purpose. They were his pack. He wanted to believe they had a reason for doing what they did, but he wasn’t sure he could ever fully trust them again.

The Viet Minh guards were waving their weapons, ordering the Americans to get out of the jeep. Dewey got out and ordered the other team members to stay put. He pulled the folded letter from his shirt pocket and opened it so the Viet Minh could look at it. “Ho Chi Minh,” he said, pointing to the signature on the page.

The Viet Minh weren’t interested in the document. The white faces and rifles were all they needed to see. They were outnumbered and frightened. Realizing that neither of the two Viet Minh soldiers understood a word of English, Dewey spoke to them in French, “Ho Chi Minh, your leader sign this document. It gives my team safe passage through Vietnam.”

Hearing Dewey speak French, the eyes of the younger of the two Viet Minh grew wide with fear and anger. Dewey continued, “We are not French. We are Americans, friends of the Viet Minh. We fought with the Viet Minh against the Japanese.”

Granier chambered a round and placed the telescope reticle over the head of the Viet Minh that seemed most threatening… just in case.

The younger of the two Viet Minh panicked and shot Dewey in the chest. Dewey fell to the ground with a shocked look on his face. “No!” screamed Hoagland jumping from the back of the jeep to tend to Dewey.

The other Viet Minh scolded his younger comrade for shooting.

Granier was shocked to see Dewey hit. It took him a moment to react. He fired and killed the Viet Minh that had shot Dewey.

Green leveled his BAR and fired a salvo of bullets into the second Viet Minh, ripping his body apart, killing him. Davis turned to see where the first shot had come from. Granier stood up, holding his rifle. “Buck?” said Davis, surprised.

Everyone in the jeep turned, shocked to see Granier. Granier walked toward the jeep, toward Hoagland tending to Dewey on the ground. Granier stood over Dewey as he gasped for breath, the Viet Minh bullet having punctured his lung and severed an artery. Hoagland was frantically trying to stop the bleeding, pressing down on the entry wound, his hand covered in Dewey’s blood. Dewey looked up at Granier with a confused look and said, “Buck, you’re alive?”

“Yeah,” said Granier. “I made it.”

“That’s good. That’s real good,” said Dewey coughing up blood.

Dewey stopped breathing. Hoagland wouldn’t stop trying to save him. He pounded on his chest to get his heart going again. He breathed air into Dewey’s bloody mouth. There was no response. Lieutenant Colonel Paul Dewey was dead – the first American soldier to die in Vietnam.

“Doc, we gotta go,” said Santana. “They’ll be coming.”

Hoagland realized Santana was right. “Will you help me?” he said to Granier.

Granier helped Hoagland lift Dewey’s body into the back of the jeep. Hoagland climbed into the back of the jeep, leaving the passenger seat open for Granier. But Granier didn’t climb in. He just stood there. “Quit fucking around, Buck. We gotta go,” said Green. “The Viet Minh are gonna be pissed when they see we killed their guys.

“Get your ass in the jeep, Buck,” said Santana.

“We’ve got a plane waiting,” said Davis. “We’re going home.”

Home? thought Granier. Hoagland could see Granier was questioning what to do. That he didn’t understand what had happened. “The Viet Minh told us you were dead. We took them at their word. That was a mistake. We would have gone back had we known you were alive,” said Hoagland. “You need to get in the jeep, Buck. Everything will be okay. You’ll see.”

Granier took another moment before he decided to believe Hoagland and climbed into the jeep. He was part of the team again. It was what he wanted – to be part of a pack.

 

Santana drove onto the airfield. A C-47 with Chinese Air Force insignia was waiting near the end of the runway. McGoon stood next to the cargo door waving at them to hurry. The jeep pulled to a stop, and the Deer Team removed their commander’s body. “Jesus. That’s a crying shame,” said McGoon watching the team load Dewey’s corpse in through the plane’s doorway. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but we’re gonna need to strap him down. Don’t want him rolling around. There’s some rope by the door.”

Granier was the last to climb up the ladder. He hesitated and looked back at the city of Hanoi. He could hear the gunfire and explosions in the distance. “I guess the Frenchies and the Viets are going to be slugging it out from here on. Glad it ain’t no business of ours,” said McGoon.

Granier didn’t respond. McGoon looked at him, a little worried. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just a little tired,” said Granier.

“I bet. Traipsing around, living in the jungle like that.”

“I wasn’t so bad.”

Granier climbed into the aircraft, followed by McGoon. The ladder was pulled in and the door shut.

 

A few minutes later, the C-47 lifted off the runway, banked to the left, and headed for China. The American War in Vietnam was over… for now.